


When the Blind Lead the Blind

by gemmawolf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Actor AU, Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemmawolf/pseuds/gemmawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actor AU where the lavish lifestyle of partying, sex and substance abuse takes a turn for the worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Blind Lead the Blind

**Author's Note:**

> This is an E rated fic because it is heavily based on drugs and I DO NOT want to have anyone young and impressionable readers thinking, "You know what? I might just try that." It's illegal for a reason - don't go getting yourself killed or in trouble with the law. Thank you.  
> Other than that, enjoy!

It was all over the news; no one had seen it coming, except Arthur. The roar of the press was faintly audible even inside one of the hospitals many corridors, accompanied by the occasional siren of an ambulance trying to go about its daily business. His styrofoam cup, long since emptied and cooled, was crumpled in the grip of his right hand, while the left was a fist clamped between his front teeth. He'd been pulled and prodded, blood taken and his eyesight examined, urine samples coaxed and answers demanded. While the doctors cleared his health, he knew that the L.A.P.D. was busy investigating the events of the early morning, and he was looking at a few months in rehab at best, and prison at worst. But it didn't matter. His nails weren't chewed down and his body trembling over a few years in a cell; he could move on from that, morph it in interviews from a shameful exposure to growth as a person. No, he was worried, petrified, over Alfred's unresponsive body lying in the room opposite.

The night had started innocently enough; well, perhaps not innocent, but certainly harmless. A few friends gathered in a luxury hotel suite, sharing drinks and gossip and drugs. It was so easy to feel above the law. With the hassle of being stopped in the street for selfies and autographs, of being stalked by the paparazzi, of having the media obsess over your weight, your hairstyle, your clothes, your lovelife, it only felt fair to have perks for VIP citizenship. Besides, the main supplier that evening had been the hotel owner, one of their close friends; if he didn't mind having the drapes and cushions smell of pot then that was his decision. By the time Alfred arrived the British actor had already had quite a few drinks and thus lost much of his common sense. It made perfect sense, at the time, to offer him some coke.

He should have known better than to encourage him; he was one of the few trusted people in Alfred's life who he'd opened up to and shared his problems. The boy was young, impressionable, and struggling to cope with the attention that came with his job. He enjoyed acting, enjoyed making people happy, but didn't know what he was getting himself into when he entered his first contract at sixteen. He'd met the American dreamboy during the first day on set of their first film together, an action-romance called _Hearts on Fire_. Arthur was 23 and cast as the charming British villain - typecasting at its finest - and Alfred, 19 at the time, was the hero who sauntered around in perfectly fitted suits and swept beautiful women off their feet. He'd caught the English actor's attention straight away with his looks, but the boy's humour, his open and bright demeanor, was what reeled him in. They remained friends for several years, and it became a running competition to see which of them would win more awards; the media and their fans loved it. Four years later and they were working on another film together, and the first of their many 'encounters' occured. Arthur was like a poison, leaking into the American's good nature and morals. He'd been dabbling in drugs on the quiet for years, often winding up in bed with some stranger and leaving them before they came off the ceiling realised who he was. But he couldn't get enough of Alfred, and it seemed he felt the same way. In the beginning they simply indulged in each other and various narcotics when they met by chance at a club or private party. As time wore on they found themselves texting every day, and organising get togethers of their own. They'd even continued such things during the year and a half that Alfred dated a popstar; the poor girl had no idea that she was just a front for the public.

Perhaps they'd grown to associate one another with a high since they always ended up sharing whatever substance was within armsreach; and, seeing as their paychecks were so tremendous, that meant it was usually expensive stuff. Arthur wouldn't call himself an addict, he just enjoyed using it, he didn't _need_ it. (Though perhaps he would play that card in the inevitable court hearing.) Alfred on the other hand... well, that wasn't really his business.

Except it was, oh _God_ it was. It was him who pushed a drink into his hand as soon as the younger star showed up in the penthouse suite. It was him who offered him the rest of his spliff when he grew bored of it. It was him who pulled him into the granite-topped kitchenette and suggested they take coke before sex. "Y'know," he'd shrugged with a seductive smile, "if you want to." It wasn't the first time they'd chosen to intoxicate themselves for heightened pleasure, and they didn't plan on it being the last. He remembered smelling smoke and chemicals on Alfred's skin, in his hair; he'd started before even arriving at the party. The scents only grew stronger as the hours passed, mixed with sweat and special edition cologne and musk. Their first fuck was the one he remembered clearest, as the drug took a few minutes to kick in while they groped and clawed at each other on the extravagant bed of the master bedroom; only the best for Arthur Kirkland. Slowly, every brush of skin became bursts of blissful flame, and they were lost to lust and pleasure and energy. The night was young though and once the high wore off they had gotten dressed and returned to the makeshift dancefloor in the living area. The crash wasn't too bad when there were spirits and cigarrettes being passed round, and they didn't last long anyway. Each time he checked up on his other friends who were present they were lighting something up and smoking it. While he relaxed with his new company, Alfred would sniff him out and join in, showering him in kisses, one hand on his body as a show of possession, the other with a joint or a rolled up scrap of paper. He loved to feel the American's hands roaming, loved to take a cheeky drag of his smoke, loved to slink off with him in a manner that wasn't at all subtle to a private space where they could strip down, suck off, and dress back up again in a matter of minutes. It was all going well until Alfred collapsed in the kitchen.

"Francis!" he called over the music. The hotelier leaned in so that he could shout down his ear. "Have you seen Alfred?"

"He wasn't feeling well," he replied, voice deafening yet still lost in the thick carpet of music. Thank goodness for soundproofing, or the Frenchman would be losing a lot of business tonight. "He went to the kitchen with a couple of the girls for a breather."

Arthur grit his jaw and stormed off in the direction of the kitchen; he was a moody so-and-so on a normal day, but filled with chemicals he could be downright vicious. _Those bitches better keep their hands off him, I swear to God._ He could hear shrieking coming from the room, and was preparing to tear someone to shreds if they were so much linking arms with his man, when he realised it wasn't the fun sort. A girl, who didn't look old enough to drink yet, was shaking Alfred's arm; he was slumped across the tiles, eyes closed, body limp. "What do we do?" the girl was screaming to her friend. "What do we do?"

"What happened?" Arthur asked, somewhat slurred, and stumbled over to drop to the actor's side.

"He said he felt sick so we brought him in here to cool down, have a drink of water," the other babbled. She was shaking. "Then he went all dizzy and passed out!"

"Call an ambulance," he told her, or rather shouted at her. Since then his heart and mind hadn't stopped racing. He expected the worst but clung onto hope. All consideration of risk, all thoughts of guilt that he'd pushed aside over the last several years had erupted to the surface. _He_ had been the one to introduce him to such events. _He_ had accepted, even supported, Alfred's carefully guarded lifestyle simply because it served himself. He saw the signs, he knew the consequences, and yet he hadn't done a single thing to stop it, and if his lover died tonight it would be all his fault.

Twenty-nine was no age to suffer a heart attack, and yet there he was, with only an IV and breathing assistance to keep him clinging to life.

Arthur could only stare at the wall and crush the cup even tighter in his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this is waaaaay OTT as far as how many times you can get high before dying but hey, fan-'fiction'. :P I think with more time and research this could be a real gritty AU. We'll see. Thanks for reading! XXX


End file.
